Chapter 4

A sudden gust of wind pushed against her side, and she set her feet wider to stay balanced. She touched one of the metal bars to test its strength. It didn’t move. Good.

Ember took a careful step onto the bridge. The concrete under her boot made a dry sound. She waited a second, listening. Nothing broke. She moved forward, slowly at first, then with a bit more confidence. Her legs were strong and steady, and she used her arms to keep balance as she crossed the narrow parts.

A small stone slid under her foot. Ember gasped and grabbed the railing.

“Crap ... steady,” she breathed.

The wind rose again, brushing her hair back and sending dust across the broken surface. She lowered her body slightly, moving with controlled steps. She scanned every crack and hole ahead of her, planning where her foot would land next.

Halfway across, she heard something below—a soft echo, like a low groan coming from under the bridge. Her stomach tightened.

Not now, she thought.

She moved faster but kept her steps sure and precise. Her boots touched the next piece of concrete, then the next. One more unstable plate shifted under her weight, and Ember jumped lightly to the solid section ahead.

When she reached the other side, she stepped onto firm ground and let out the breath she had been holding.

“Made it,” she muttered.

Only then did she allow herself the smallest smile—quick, tired, almost a private joke at her own nerves. She brushed dust from her knee and looked back at the broken bridge.

“New stage,” she said under her breath, “New dance.”

The sun burned high above the empty fields, pressing heat down like a heavy hand. Ahead, the ruins of the house Zed had described stood in the open land. The structure—blackened timbers, collapsed brick, and warped metal—rose like a shattered monument. Ember slowed her pace. The open space made her feel exposed, and every step became a careful calculation.

Ember slowed her steps as she neared the ruins. Something sprawled across the cracked concrete caught her eye — a swollen, rotting dog carcass, its fur matted and glistening, belly bloated and split. Flies crawled over it, and the stench hit her immediately. She wrinkled her nose but kept moving.

She circled the wreckage, studying angles and shadows. The main entrance was useless, a collapsed mouth of debris. The air was thick with the smell of damp dust and rotting wood.

Then she found it: a narrow crack where the cellar wall had split. It was just wide enough for her to slip through. Ember unbuckled her backpack and let it fall to the ground. She drew in one deep breath.

She pushed her shoulders into the tight gap first, twisting to avoid the sharp edges of broken concrete. Her breathing stayed shallow. Ember slid down the dirt chute and landed on a pile of cold, wet rubble.

The basement air was stale and cold, pressing against her skin. The space was dark—only faint lines of dusty light cut through the cracks above. The concrete floor had caved in completely in the center, leaving a deep, dark pit of stagnant, foul-smelling water. Something large was floating in the muck. To cross it, a slick, narrow I-beam stretched over the chasm.

“My stage, my dance,” she whispered.

She stepped onto the metal. The beam let out a loud, metallic shriek. Ember froze. The sound was a dinner bell; she knew every noise amplified down here.

She used the micro-muscles in her feet, walking with the lightness of a dancer. She held her arms out, barely breathing.

It happened on the sixth step. A sudden, sharp squeal pierced the silence, coming from the shadows to her left.

Ember’s head snapped sideways, and her boot slid violently on the greasy metal. She let out a choked cry, her center of gravity vanished. She plunged into the darkness.

Her arms shot out instantly, a reflex honed by years of catching herself. Her fingers hooked onto the edge of the beam. The shock of the fall dragged her down. Her chest and legs splashed into the corrupt water. The stench of decay and wet, dead things—she felt something slick brush her thigh.

She did not scream. Her focus returned instantly: Grip. Pull.

She used the raw strength in her biceps and core. Her soaked combat boots scraped uselessly against the concrete. Inch by painful inch, she dragged her torso back up, scrambling onto the slick surface.

She lay flat on the beam, gasping for air, soaked from the waist down in the filth. The smell was overwhelming. She had made it across, but the cost was heavy.

She rolled off the beam onto the solid side and immediately found the crawl space Zed mentioned: a low tunnel beneath a tangled mass of pipework. She dropped to her stomach, crawling forward over the damp, uneven floor. The space was so confined she could barely move her head.

The waterlogged fabric of her jumpsuit weighed her down, making every movement a grunt of pain. A broken support beam dug into her side, forcing her to twist her body violently to pass.

Finally, she saw light: the small, final space where the object was hidden. She pushed one shoulder through, then the other, but her progress stopped abruptly. Her water-soaked thighs were pinned by the crushing weight of the beam and pipework.

She was stuck.

Panic flared, sharp and cold. She wrestled desperately, pushing against the concrete, but the wet friction was too great. She had to make a choice.

With a furious curse, she found the zipper of her jumpsuit. She yanked it down to her waist, the cold air hitting her torso. Her shoulders and arms were free, but her legs were now tangled in the bunched fabric around her knees.

She pushed hard with her hands and slid forward, leaving the ruined, filthy jumpsuit half-trapped in the tunnel. She moved out, falling onto the concrete floor—bare skin against the cold, dusty cement.

Relief washed over her for a single, short second. Her legs were muffled and awkward inside the rolled fabric. She had to untangle herself.